voices and laughter, their setting and surroundings—the whole show repelled her, she who had been always used to the fresh air and the sea and the simple things of life and the work which is the soul's salvation.
She felt lost in a world of which she knew nothing, a world that filled her with a vague dislike.
“Let's enjoy ourselves while we can,” had said Dicky.
She finished her tea without showing what was in her mind, then she suddenly turned to her companion:
“Dicky,” said she, “I don't like this place. I wish we hadn't come. I don't like the look of these people.”
“Why, what's wrong with them?” asked Dicky, surprised by the sudden change in her manner and the conviction in her voice.
“I don't know—nothing. Only they make me feel like a lost dog without a single friend in the world. They are different from us—let's go away. Couldn't we get some quiet hotel, or rooms or something, or go back to the boat?”
“Well, we landed to poke about and see how the land lies and try and get help. I don't see the good of going back to the boat.”
“We won't get any help in this place.”
“Well, maybe not, but we can go out and prospect. I've just had an idea that we might try the British consul—just sound him about the prospect of getting a concession. Anyhow, there's no use going to a second-class hotel; it costs as much in the long run and as for rooms—goodness, how are we to look for them?”
“All right,” said Sheila. “Now we are here, we had better stay, perhaps. Shall we go to the consul now?”
“Yes, if you're ready.”
Sheila was just about to rise when a voice made her turn her head. The joyous, boisterous voice of a big, burly, black-bearded man. He was passing them toward the dance room; he was accompanied by two pretty young girls in white-muslin frocks, evidently his daughters, for he had an arm flung about each of them. The gentleman passed without seeing them. He was the dead Bompard.
“Dicky!” said Sheila.
“Good heavens above!” said Dicky.
“Bompard!”
“Unless it's a mistake!”
“Oh, no,” said Sheila, with a little laugh. “It's not a mistake. It's impossible there could be two like him—absolutely.”
“But how's he here?”
“Mail boat, I suppose. You remember he said he had business here and I remember him saying something about his wife and children—those are the children I expect—or some of them. You'd better find him and speak to him. I felt somehow or another that James was making a fool of himself.”
Dicky looked uneasy.
“To tell the truth,” said he, “after leaving him like that—the way we did, you know—running off”
“Yes, it makes it difficult; all the same it's better to grasp the nettle; he's staying here and it has to be done sooner or later.”
Dicky jumped to his feet.
“Wait for me,” he said. He crossed the hall and disappeared at the opening leading to the dance room.
Then Sheila waited.
An attendant came and took away the tea things and placed an ash tray and matches on the table; five minutes passed and then in the archway appeared two figures, Bompard's and Dicky's; the hand of Bompard was on the shoulder of his companion and they were talking and laughing and evidently the best of friends.
“Ah, Miss Dennis,” cried Bompard, advancing with hand outspread. “What a pleasure!” He meant it, and as Sheila took his hand the full measure of her stupidity in ever suspecting this man came to her as a shock.
“And the good Mr. Cordare, where is he?” asked Bompard.
Sheila explained that the good Mr. Corder had been called to New York on business, and Bompard, breaking off the conversation and rushing back to the dance room, returned with Madame Bompard, stout, comfortable-looking Arlésienne, and the two daughters. They didn't speak English, but Bompard made up for the deficiency, and after ten minutes' talk Sheila and Dicky bade the Bompard family au revoir and left the lounge.
Outside, in the Callé Juanita, Sheila turned to the other.
“But, Dicky! Didn't he say anything to you about the poisoning and you leaving him?”
“Oh, lots,” said Dicky, “and he apologized for not having come to see us off. You
